old books

old books


I go to an old book store north of here.  Dusty.

The young man at the counter follows me around to chat.  It has been a lonely morning.

He mentions that it was cold that morning.  That his hands were frozen by the time he got to the subway.

I look up at him, away from the rows of old books.

“You came from Toronto?” I ask.

He stares back at me.

“No, the store.”

When another customer appears, he moves on to them.


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